Page 3 of Scourge of the Shores
The Ruthless Pirate
Robert Jaymes kneeled beside his father’s bed. With a solemn gesture, the middle-aged, dying man lifted his captain’s hat and placed it on Robert’s head, symbolizing the weight of leadership and the burden of legacy that was now Robert’s to bear.
No words were spoken, but a look of pride passed from father to son before the man made his way to Tophet, the dark place that held the souls of the dead.
Robert stood up, his belly twisting with knots.
At twenty-six, he was a Pirate King of the North Sea and the sole Captain of his father’s grand ship of the line, Storm Rider .
He now commanded the largest fleet of the Pirate Kings.
His comrades had experienced fates similar to those of early-passing fathers.
He was the youngest of the new generation of Pirate Kings, but he had the most to lose.
The others came from long lines of royalty, but his father was the first Robert “The Ruthless” Jaymes, and he would be the second.
The crews of the Pirate Kings doubled their ages with years of tenacity and experience.
It would be difficult not to raise mutiny in the years to come.
The crews would grant him some grace due to his youth, but it would not extend far or last long.
A slow breath escaped Robert’s lips. His shoulders bore the weight of his father’s reputation.
Robert scanned the sea-worn features of the dead man’s face. Blinking back the sting of finality, his father’s words echoed in his mind: Sorrow is for the weak .
The ship swayed at the port, the wood groaning, but he walked with steady ease to the polished copper mirror bolted to the wall, with boots hitting the floor with purpose.
He studied his reflection. The resemblance to his father was undeniable—the sharp cut of his jaw, the proud arch of his brow, the navy-steel depths of his eyes. But his father’s face was gone; only his reflection stared back.
The hat’s wide brim was worn from salt and time. He adjusted it slightly, but it didn’t feel right, not yet.
He washed his face in the small basin beneath the mirror, pulled oil on his teeth and tongue, and adjusted the lapels of his coat. Unlike most of the other pirate kings, his father had drilled hygiene and proper speech into his routine.
“A pirate may never know when his presentation may save his life,” he whispered, recalling his late father’s words and straightening his lapels. “And when our line becomes the sole king of the world, we shall be presentable and relatable to all the nations and empires,” he repeated.
Even to the Krakenkind in the south.
His stomach twisted. The Krakenkind were the most feared of the DeepMother’s lament-born—deadlier than sirens or sea dragons, and said to be born from the deepest trench where her tears turned to blood.
They were the last of her children, shaped not by sorrow like sirens, but by rage: her wrath made flesh.
Their ink was said to blind the stars, their tentacles strong enough to pull islands beneath the waves.
If the ancient scrolls were true, the Krakenkind could devour the world whole—drown empires, swallow fleets.
That was, if they ever stopped warring among themselves.
But they never did.
Just like men.
Robert scoffed. “Just like us.”
Still, his father believed that peace could be forged among the Pirate Kings. Power could be unified under one banner. That vision had never left the North Sea, but Robert would. He made a vow: one day, he would stand before the revered Bloodfangs of the South Sea Pirate Kings.
He would make allies of them.
Or conquer them all.
Footsteps stirred beyond the door.
Soon, they would look to him. But before he could chase legacy, he had to claim it. First, he had to announce his father’s death and assume the mantle of Pirate King.
He cracked his neck, eyes locked on his reflection.
“The Pirate King is one with Tophet,” he whispered, rehearsing the announcement. He curled his lip. “Robert ‘The Ruthless’ Jaymes is dead.” He shook his head and steadied the storm building in his chest.
He wasn’t ready. He had to earn the respect of his father’s crews.
His throat tightened, but he forced the thought down like bile. The other Pirate Kings wouldn’t wait. They would tear him apart the second they smelled hesitation.
He swallowed the lump in his throat as his eyes drifted to the reflected bulge in the bed behind him.
He took a step back to examine himself. His reflection sharpened.
The copper’s uneven surface distorted the edges, stretching his features into something unfamiliar.
A stranger. A boy playing king. But his father taught him how to wear the mask well.
He exhaled sharply, tugged at his lapels, and rolled his shoulders again. He had vowed to his father to extend the Jaymes’ legacy.
The mantle had passed to him.
He was to continue consolidating the Pirate Kings of the North Sea under one king—Jaymes: himself, or his son, or grandson—however long it took.
His father had united forty kings under ten; surely, he could consolidate ten down to one.
After the consolidation was complete, the next point of his father’s plan was to move south to consolidate the twenty Pirate Kings there, before striking the nations in the East to subdue their enchanters, and eventually, somehow, cut down the Krakenkind’s empire.
But the sirens in the west were to be untouched, for no one sailed siren waters.
The name Jaymes was to be feared, respected, and honored. That was the legacy of his father’s name, and thus, it would be his. He had been well-taught, well-prepared. He nodded at himself, allowing the slow smirk and clouded eyes to take over.
“Aye, matey,” he told himself.
He turned away from the mirror before doubt clouded his mind again. He adjusted the hat one final time. Heavy or not, it was his now.
With a dry eye, he exited the captain’s quarters to the main deck, where the crew gathered for important decisions. The remaining nine Pirate Kings and their fleets were anchored at Rogue’s Isle, the neutral island rock straddling the North and South seas, awaiting his leadership.
The nine Pirate Kings stood in single fashion before Robert on Storm Rider ’s main deck: Rosa, Blackwood, Damien, Garrick, Hagen, Holcomb, Adams, Cooper, and Vance. The sun lit up their irises when they lifted their heads to hear the news.
Robert glanced at Storm Rider ’s gleaming white sails on the mainmast, which boasted the imposing gold “J,” as they flitted in the sea breeze.
His gaze drifted to Daniel Rosa, his brother by oath.
Only a few years older than Robert, Daniel had taken Robert under his care and brought him up in the circle of the Pirate Kings’ sons.
They were matelots—brothers through every storm.
The sun glinted off Daniel’s rings, one for each finger.
His dark hair flapped in the wind. Voted the most handsome of the Pirate Kings, he cared not for hygiene as Robert did.
Rosa had succeeded his father only a year earlier and was in command of the second-largest fleet—Jaymes having surpassed him.
Robert often wondered if the speed at which his father overtook them all would stir jealous conspiracies against him. He eyed the rest of the captains: Blackwood, Damien, and Garrick with the next largest fleets, and Hagen, Holcomb, Adams, Cooper, and Vance with the smallest.
Trust would now be earned, he told himself, donning the realization of the target painted on his back.
Robert opened his arms wide, and the right words rolled off his tongue.
“Tonight, we send Captain Robert ‘The Ruthless’ Jaymes off as he embarks for Tophet, not with sorrow but with respect. He mastered the seas, united the Pirate Kings of the North, and left a legacy none will surpass. His name will echo through time. Raise your cups. Raise your scabbards. He was my father. He was the leader of the Pirate Kings.”
He dipped his chin in a deep respect for his father, the legendary Pirate King who, in one generation, did more than any other pirate in the history of the known world.
Robert brushed off the one exception: the first Pirate King, Chadwick, who had ruled the North Sea alone for his entire period of piracy.
Hats came off heads as the Pirate Kings and crew honored the late Jaymes.
Robert summoned the undertaker and his assistants with a flick of his finger.
Knowing his father’s failing state, he had already paid them in advance.
The neutral island was all too happy to receive a hundred Delphi for the internment of the great Captain Jaymes.
At least at Rogue’s Isle, no one would touch the burial site or risk death. Only the best merchants worked out of Rogue’s Isle, so the coffin was pristinely carved with detailed scenes of Jaymes’s rise to worldwide fame, though he’d only sailed the North Sea.
The night was full of ale, rum, and grog as the island’s visitors celebrated the late pirate’s life and patted Robert Jaymes on the back as his successor.
Wenches and strumpets lined the inns, waiting for the men who wanted a night to remember and leave with their pockets empty.
But Robert only took one rum, maybe two.
Robert swirled the rum in his cup, letting its scent cloud the air.
He pressed it to his lips but never drank.
Across the room, Pirate Kings slurred their words, their coin pouches growing lighter with every round.
His father’s voice echoed in his mind: “Drink, but never enough to dull your wits. They respect a pirate who drinks. They follow a pirate who stays standing.”